Facing Reality
by gopadfoot
Summary: Sherlock underestimates his strength when he attacks Mycroft. What is the price they will both pay? How far is Sherlock willing to go to make amends?


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* * *

Furiously, Sherlock twisted Mycroft's left hand behind him and shoved him against the wall. Mycroft picked up his hands to shield his face. He was a split second too late.

Mycroft slowly turned around, wincing, and John gasped. Mycroft was bleeding heavily from his nose and mouth. His jaw was hanging at an odd angle, and the right side of his face was rapidly swelling. "Oh, God," he said, and rushed to bring ice.

John turned to look at Sherlock, and saw him standing frozen as the ice pack he held in his hands. His eyes were wide, his mouth was hanging slightly open, but not a muscle twitched. The doctor turned back to Mycroft and began cataloguing his injuries. "Dislocated jaw, two loose teeth, nose is definitely broken. Split lip... I'm afraid that'll need stitches. Your going to get a black eye right there... I'm afraid you'll need the A&E."

John pressed some gauze on his lips, while directing Mycroft on where to place the ice. "Sherlock, you need to call am ambulance," the doctor called to his friend.

"No need, Dr. Watson." Mycroft's words were garbled, and sounded more like "Bo need, Dr. Batson." Nevertheless, they weren't lacking any of his usual officiousness. "Such minor injuries can be treated in our in-house clinic."

John didn't inquire further about the clinic, but suspected it was more like a specialized mini-hospital. He thought he would have liked a tour out of professional curiosity, but doubted he would be offered one.

The government official stood up with difficulty, and gestured for his umbrella. John handed it to him, and then noticed the odd way he was holding his left hand. "Wait a moment," he told the injured man. "Let me see that hand." After examining the limb, the doctor sighed. "Dislocated elbow. Should be easy to put back in, but you will always be more prone to dislocation."

Sherlock had still not said a word. He was staring at his brother, who was avoiding his gaze. Suddenly, the younger brother turned on his heels and stormed into the tiny kitchen. He began opening and closing cupboards, making as much noise as possible. John felt extremely uncomfortable, being caught in the awkward standoff between the brothers. "You should go now," he told Mycroft. "He's liable to snap you in half when he's high."

The British Government looked broken and defeated and he silently limped out.

A moment later, Sherlock's bedroom door opened and Janine pranced out. John's jaw dropped in surprise while she nonchalantly strode up to Sherlock in her underdressed state and leaned over to peck him on the cheek. "How my detective doing today?" she giggled. "Oh, John, you're here, too! What was all that shouting out there?"

Sherlock immediately transformed, taking on the persona of a loving boyfriend. "Hope that didn't bother you too much, Janine," he said, his voice overflowing with concern. "I'm sorry I wasn't here last night, had a case to work on. I missed you, you know."

"Oh, Sherl, you don't worry about me," she giggled. "Go solve me a case, my detective!"

The detective saw his girlfriend off with an additional few pleasantries. Then he turned to John, his demeanor instantly changing. "We need to get ready, he's coming soon."

"Who?"

"Magnussen."

"I didn't know you'd gotten yourself a girlfriend! And Janine! Mary will be so delighted!" John wore a giddy grin.

"Weren't you listening? There's a case to be solved!"

"You, a girlfriend? Who would have ever believed that?" John didn't relent.

Sherlock finally got him to concentrate, and filled him in on Magnussen. Something was niggling at the back of John's brain, something that wasn't about Magnussen, or about Janine. What was it again? Oh. "What about Mycroft?" he suddenly asked.

"What about him? We're rid of him. He's gone."

"But... you injured him. Not severely, but not too lightly either. He will be in pain and have limited functioning for a couple of weeks, at least."

"Am I supposed to cry for him now? I didn't ask him to stick his nose into my business. He got what he deserved," Sherlock retorted aggressively.

"No, I asked him. My mistake. God, he was awful. Thinking he could threaten us to give up a case, because of his political considerations. You didn't have to go that far, however, you know."

"I might have underestimated my strength. It happens, when I'm high."

"So this wasn't the first time?

Sherlock didn't answer.

* * *

Several hours later, the duo had already met Magnussen, and were planning an epic break-in for that night. Sherlock's mobile rang, and rang, and rang, but he didn't pick up, refusing to be distracted.

"Who's it?" John asked him.

"Anthea. Probably wants to chew me out. Can't be bothered right now."

John was getting irritated by the constant ringing, and asked Sherlock to put his phone on silent. Moments later, the doorbell rang. They heard Mrs. Hudson letting someone in, and then there were footsteps on the stairs.

"I'm busy now, Anthea," Sherlock said, without turning around.

"Your brother's surgery was successful," the younger woman said in a monotone. "They managed to stop the bleeding in the brain."

If John had ever thought of his friend as pale skinned, he had to change his mind after seeing his color now.

"Take me," he said quietly.

"The car is outside," she said in frigid tones, and the duo followed her out silently.

The trio rode the whole way without a single word being spoken. The doctor in John dearly wanted to inquire about the medical specifics, whether the hemorrhage was subdue all or extracurricular, the prognosis, and such. However, he realized that he needed to follow Sherlock's lead, and if he wasn't speaking, neither would John.

Mycroft had been transferred to a top quality London hospital for the surgery, and was now sent to recover in a private room. He hadn't yet woken from the general anesthesia he had been given. A doctor directed Sherlock to sit in the waiting room until Mycroft was conscious. Suddenly, Sherlock found his tongue and began stirring up a fuss, insisting that he be let in right away.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the doctor who's name tag read "Dr. Montague." "We need to monitor him as he awakes. Please take a seat, you'll be called soon."

John decided to try his luck, even of it was a long shot. "I'm his doctor, and would like to be given access to the patient and his files."

"You are Dr...?" asked Dr. Montague.

"Watson," John supplied.

The physician consulted a chart. "I'm sorry, we don't have you down as his GP."

John looked at Anthea, willing her to come to his aid. She seemed to be immersed in her texting.

"I'm his next of kin," Sherlock argued. "Why wasn't I called before?"

"You are family?"

"I'm his brother."

"Let me check." The doctor consulted his files, and then looked up. "I'm sorry, sir. It seems Mr. Holmes has specifically requested that family members not be notified in case of emergency. There's a different contact name on file."

"That would be me," Anthea spoke up, eyes still on her phone. "I've been given lasting powers of attorney, which gives me the right to make decisions for him in case he's incapacitated. It was my own decision to call you."

Sherlock turned to her. "He gave you lasting powers of attorney?" he asked quietly, the hurt in his voice unmistakable.

"Mr. Holmes needed someone who would usually be close by and available," Anthea responded unapologetically.

The detective didn't respond.

"Why not one of his parents?" John questioned her, bewildered. "Or Sherlock?"

"Don't, John," Sherlock said firmly. John understood that he needed to tread delicately. They were approaching a minefield.

"I need to see him, Anthea," Sherlock told the PA, his voice softened, almost pleading.

The PA gave a sharp nod, and the duo were shown in in record time.

Sherlock sat down next to his brother's bed. John noticed that he was avoiding any physical contact with him. They sat quietly and waited.

After about an hour, Mycroft began stirring. Dr. Montague approached him and examined him. Then he began to question him.

"What's your name?"

"Albert Mycroft Holmes, Jr., the last time I checked."

The physician smiled thinly at the attempt at humor.

"What is today's date?"

The patient stared at him blankly.

The doctor made a quick notation on his chart. "Who is the current Prime Minister?"

"Uh," Mycroft wrinkled his forehead. "Tony Blair?" he questinned, uncertain. "I recall meeting with him recently... I was discussing our policies on the Iraq war."

Sherlock jumped up and stood himself in front of Mycroft, edging the doctor away. "How many pounds did you gain in the last month?" He questioned.

Mycroft stared at him. "Sherlock?" he questioned in confusion.

"Who else?" he retorted snarkily, although the relief was evident in his voice.

"Why are you here? I specifically told them not to call you," Mycroft said, annoyed.

"What a warm welcome," Sherlock mocked.

John decided to intervene before their bickering got out of hand.

"Mycroft," he greeted him as he approached.

"Nice to meet you, Dr...?" the patient trailed off, questioningly.

John observed him carefully. "Dr. Watson," he introduced himself.

"Forgive me for asking, but I see that you don't work here. You are obviously a doctor, so you must be consulting?" Mycroft frowned in confusion.

"Do you remember meeting me before?" John asked, his throat constricting.

The government official observed him thoughtfully. "I would say you seem a tad familiar, although I couldn't say why."

"Do you remember what happened today?" Sherlock asked shortly.

"I suppose there was an accident?" Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut in concentration. "I can't really recall. I don't think my staff would have let an enemy near enough to do this to me," he grinned sardonically. "So accident is a good bet."

Sherlock shook his head. John noticed his fists clenching tightly. "I'll be a moment," the detective muttered, and left the room with long strides. John tilted his head, indicating that he would follow him.

John hurried to catch up with Sherlock, cursing the latter's long legs. He noticed his friend enter the public loo. After a minute, he heard the sound of agonized retching coming from that direction. He waited helplessly until Sherlock emerged a few minutes later. Sherlock didn't look at John as he washed up.

"It would have been kinder to just kill him," he said in a monotone. "Mycroft without his mind is a man with no purpose, no identity, no humanity."

"Look, Sherlock, this is most likely just a temporary side effect, due to the trauma and anesthesia," John said comfortingly. "I've seen his chart. His prognosis is-"

"I did it to him," Sherlock interrupted, fiercely.

"It _was_ an accident. You didn't mean to."

"I wanted to hurt him. I was angry. I just didn't mean to go so far." Sherlock sounded so much like a lost child that his pain tore at John's heart.

"He'll get better," the doctor said lamely, not knowing what else could be said.

Sherlock began walking, with John following behind. The detective approached Anthea, and told her, "It was me."

"I know," she responded neutrally.

"Then you should press charges. I shouldn't be here, walking around as a free man."

John gasped.

"That decision is for Mr. Holmes to make."

" _Mr. Holmes_ isn't capable of making any decisions right now," Sherlock said bitterly. "And that is completely my fault. I will cooperate, don't worry. Do what you have to do."

"Sherlock!" his friend called to him in consternation. "You can't mean that!"

"Of course I can. I'm no different than the hundreds of other criminals incarcerated for assault and battery. I'm not above the law, am I?"

John opened his mouth to reassure him that Mycroft could get him off the charges, before he realized how ludicrous that suggestion was.

"For now, we will wait," Anthea finally looked up at him. "When Mr. Holmes gets better, we can discuss this further." The men heard the slight emphasis she put on the "when." "You should go back in. He's been asking for you."

The detective nodded and headed inside. John observed how Mycroft's face smoothed in relief upon seeing his brother.

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock asked him in an aggrieved manner. "Not in the mood for legwork? Your laziness is interfering with my schedule, you know."

"What schedule? Finding lost cats and dogs, are we? Solving your little puzzles? How very public spirited," Mycroft retorted mockingly.

John listened quietly to the distinct Holmesian conversation that followed, part banter, part bickering, and part competition. His ears were attuned enough at this point to catch the mutual caring running through it, the weakness that both of them would never admit to.

Before he left, Sherlock reassured Anthea that he would be back, and left her a simple set of instructions. "Call me when he remembers."

Sherlock visited on a daily basis, usually together with John, the latter of whom was a mostly silent observer. Sherlock had introduced John as a friend, and Mycroft didn't question him any further.

On the eleventh day after surgery, Anthea called. Sherlock grabbed John and rushed with him to the hospital.

"How nice of you to come again, brother mine," Mycroft said, his voice perfectly even. "I consider myself most fortunate to entertain your presence."

"You should press charges," Sherlock said flatly.

"We both know that isn't going to happen," Mycroft said gravely. "I do not see any benefit in that."

The younger Holmes swallowed, and then produced a paper from his coat pocket. "I said that I made my first and last vow at John's wedding. So you may call this an oath, or a pledge, or simply a promise. Either way, I'm committing myself now, in the presence of witnesses, to never, under any circumstances, abuse narcotics or any drugs which may have an adverse affect on my health or behavior. I have committed this in writing, and I want all three of you to sign it. In return," he looked straight at his older brother, "I want you to promise me that if I ever break my word, you will immediately press charges for _everything_ I've ever done."

John, Mycroft, and Anthea simply stared at him. Sherlock produced a pen, and pressed it into Anthea's hand. She looked at her boss searchingly. "Are you sure about this, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked him softly.

"As sure as I could ever be," he responded with conviction.

They signed, one after the other. Sherlock was the last one, and he requested a few minutes in privacy with his brother. He moved his chair closers to the bed, and bit his lip. Suddenly, he blurted, "I'm sorry."

"I know," his brother said gently. "I'm sorry, too. Things must have been pretty bad for you if you decided to turn to drugs again, and I wasn't there for you."

"That's no excuse," Sherlock said angrily.

"No, it isn't," Mycroft agreed. "But what you did now, that was... I'd almost say it was worth it."

"Would you... would you be able to forgive me?" Sherlock asked, almost shyly.

"I don't really have choice, do I?" Mycroft rolled his eyes. He reached for Sherlock's hand and squeezed it firmly. "That's what big brothers do."


End file.
